


Chocolate Banana Cream Pie

by Florchis



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fitz's birthday, Gen, Pie, Post-Season/Series 01 AU, mama may
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 08:47:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15748302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florchis/pseuds/Florchis
Summary: Fitz decided to go back home after Jemma left, and he is slowly making peace with the idea of a life without S.H.I.E.L.D. That doesn't mean that the family he made within will not want to visit, especially for his birthday.





	Chocolate Banana Cream Pie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emofitz (morbid_beauty)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morbid_beauty/gifts).



> Written for the Fitz's Birthday Exchange at [@leofitznetwork](http://leofitznetwork.tumblr.com)

If someone had asked him one year ago who was the person he expected to keep in contact with after leaving S.H.I.E.L.D., his first reaction would have been to laugh at the perspective of leaving the place that had welcomed him with open arms when he was nothing but an awkward teenager with a Ph.D. under his arm and dreams too big to fit inside his own head.

Almost immediately, his second reaction would have been to say Simmons, of course. What kind of question was that.

Oh, how things turn.

In full honesty, he is not even sure that Jemma knows he left yet; he knows that she hasn’t returned yet, which means that either she wasn’t visiting her parents or she has quitted altogether too.

Wait a minute, has _he_ quitted? No, no, no, no. _No._ He is just taking some time off. Some… breather of some sorts. Yeah. He just needs time, to, to, to process and… stuff. Traumatic brain injuries usually do that to people.

(He wonders if he is fooling himself, the same way he has been fooled about Jemma leaving. He doesn’t really like where that line of thinking takes him, so he just… doesn’t follow it.)  

Though he refuses to think of him and S.H.I.E.L.D. as two separate entities, there is something he does not tell anybody, not his mum, not even his therapist, that is that he doesn’t see himself returning either. He can’t explain it properly, the way words keep getting slushed inside his own head, but he sees himself existing in some sort of weird middle-place. That he can’t understand the idea of not being a S.H.IE.L.D. agent, but at the same time, that things have crossed a line he didn’t feel comfortable crossing. That even with the lingering consequences of hypoxia and without Jemma here, his level of anxiety has plummeted and he is starting to feel joy again for things as mundane as helping an old lady with her cell phone or fixing the broken wing on a kid’s toy plane.

He has built non-lethal weaponry for one of the most influential spy agencies in the world, surely he shouldn’t be proud of a gang of kids under five that look at their toys after he has improved them with stars on their eyes and gaping mouths, right?

_Right?_

Either way, the only person from S.H.I.E.L.D. he is still in contact with is the only person who knows and understands his dichotomy, even though he has not voiced it out loud himself.

He just could never have imagined that person being Melinda May.

He has asked more than once during her weekly phone-calls if Coulson or someone else has put her up to this task, and that no matter her orders, she doesn’t need to check on him like a child. He is a grown-ass man, even if one with aphasia, and an engineer at that; he can deal with his own shit, thank you very much.

And if he can’t, well, that’s why he moved to a small town half an hour away from his mum.

“Why didn’t you move in with her?” May asked him in a very un-May way the last time they talked, as a new rebuttal to his long-standing complaint.

Fitz tried very hard to not roll his eyes, especially since they were on the phone and the gesture would have been completely wasted.

“Everybody, um, everybody knows me, th-there. The neighbourhood does not change. Ever. And, um.” He swallows, hard, feeling his throat swelling up at the idea. “Didn’t want to live facing pi-pity every day.”

He felt silly saying that to no less than Melinda May, The Cavalry herself, who probably hasn’t cared about what other people think of her not even once in her life. Very appropriately, he didn’t get any reply but silence.

Until three days later, when he is coming home late from dinner with his mum, and May is sitting on his doorstep in all her black leather glory with a cake box that looks like it has seen much better days on her hand.

“May? Is everyone okay?” He wants to drag her inside as quickly as possible- if there is any kind of emergency, he would like to deal with it in private-, but his hands are shaking too much, and all he can do is look nervously to one side and then to the other.

“Calm down.” Her voice is cool as always, but her hands are gentle when they take the keychain from him. She opens the door, leads him inside with a soft shove, and only speaks again when the door is closed. “Everything is fine.” She makes a pause, and Fitz thinks about how to pinch himself in the most discreet possible way, just to be sure that he is not dreaming. “Happy birthday, Fitz.”

“Oh!”

 _Oh._ So that is what this is all about. He would gladly have left the day pass by without further ado- he is trying, really trying, but he still can’t completely shake off the bitter taste on things that Simmons used to do for him-, but his mum and his therapist ganged up on him to prevent it from happening. He just wasn’t expecting any news from the team on that front, much less a dropout.

“There is, um, I have, ah, um.” He rubs the back of his neck, frustrated at his dysnomia flaring up particularly in presence of people he wants to see him as strong. “Tea! I have tea! Want some?” He sounds too euphoric for something so mundane, but better that than to stay on the infinite loop of repeating himself fruitlessly.

“Sure.” May leaves the cake on top of his table and follows him to the kitchen to help with the preparations.

Fitz waits for an explanation, for something that can help him make any sense of this out-of-the-blue visit. The explanation doesn’t come, and they pass through the tea-making process in silence. It’s not until they are both sitting at the table, tea mugs ready and May is cutting two generous slices of chocolate banana cream pie, that he bursts.

“What are you doing here, M-Agent May?”

She looks at him from under her lashes, and Fitz gulps. She is a woman capable of killing a man with her bare thighs, and it was easy to forget that when they were teammates, but he can not have that luxury anymore.

“We were nearby checking on some former agents that went rogue. You know I can’t tell you more than that.” Is he imagining it, or she sounds more apologetic than chastising? Of course, that is an interpretation buried way under the general neutral tone of her statement.

“Yeah, no, of course.” There is something equal parts heartrending and freeing about her reminding him that he is not an agent anymore. “I meant… here. At my, um, my house. Why are you _here?”_

She makes a toast on his direction with the plate with her half-eaten slice, and despite the tightness of the moment, Fitz’s mouth waters. He has not tried his yet, and he loves this type of pie. Someone has done their research right.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Fitz.”

“Repeat what-?”

“Happy birthday.”

He blinks at her, once, twice, his spoon frozen in mid-air.

“Are you kidding?”

She flashes him with a displeased look, and he has seen softer eyes on her face before, but he still shakes at the power of it.

“You know I don’t do that.”

In fact, he knows that she _does._ He can not let that gone unsaid, not with this cream looking at him so accusatory.

“I know that you put, um, shaving, shaving cream. On my face. Um, on the Bus.” Her face softens immediately at the mention of their past, and Fitz takes advantage of the moment to strike again. “I’m not a ch-child. I don’t need a birthday party. Then why did you come, Agent May?”

May takes one sip and then another of her tea before replying, and by the time she speaks, Fitz has polished off his slice of pie.

“I think your mum probably takes good care of this.” Her voice is so soft that almost doesn’t sound like her, and Fitz raises his head to be sure that it is her moving her mouth and all her facial muscles and producing that strange sound. “But you told me you are afraid of living facing pity and commiseration every day. Well, I came here to show you what you make me feel. And that’s pride, not pity.” She makes a pause, takes a tiny bit of pie to her mouth and chews on it pensively. “Being alive in our line of work is not a small feat. To be alive after what you went through? That is strength, Fitz. We do not feel shame for being strong, and if someone pities you for facing danger and loss and coming the other side of it stronger, well, they are the fools, not you.” She smiles wolfishly, and that is a look he can recognize on her face. “Joke is on them.”

His hands are shaking big time, and he would like to be worthy of all that inspirational words, but he is not sure he is.

“Even if I do not want to go back to that life?” His voice sounds tiny and afraid on the silent air of the night, and for all reply, May only gives him a tiny half-smile.

Instead, she serves him an obscenely big piece of pie.

“ _Especially_ if you can still love life enough to not go back.”    

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of LLF Comment Project, whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
> 
>   * Short comments
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> This author replies to comments (but it might take a while). If you'd rather not get a reply, please add *whispers* to your comment.



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